


Rented Out

by tenderly_wicked



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Dubious Consent, Hooker!lock dark AU, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Non-Consensual, Prostitution, mentions of drug use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-18
Updated: 2013-09-18
Packaged: 2017-12-26 23:04:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/971332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tenderly_wicked/pseuds/tenderly_wicked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written <a>for this prompt</a>. Dirty cop Lestrade isn’t just the lead detective working vice, he’s also a ruthless and violent pimp. Disowned by Mycroft, addict!Sherlock doesn’t take long to fall under Lestrade’s purview, and he soon learns that Lestrade’s going to make him work hard to earn his next hit. John Watson lost his medical licence after the PTSD started putting patients at risk, but it hasn’t stopped him running a back-door illegal clinic for those folks who want to stay under the radar. Lestrade keeps the law turning a blind eye while John keeps patching up Lestrade’s ‘boys’ for free.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rented Out

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to my beta primalmusic!

“A bad day, was it?”

The dark-haired rent boy only groans in response when John lightly touches one of the abrasions on his back with gauze soaked in antiseptic. His lithe, naked body is prostrated across the crumpled, stale sheets, so badly damaged that it feels like an abomination. Such delicate, milky-white skin should be kissed and stroked and worshiped. How could anyone mar it with ugly welts, what kind of man would do that?

“What was it, Sherlock?” John asks, trying to disinfect the raw parts as gently as he can, but his patient just shudders silently under his touch, like a wounded animal.

“A studded belt,” Greg answers for him. He’s standing behind John, leaning against the door frame. “It was his own fault, really. Why can’t he keep his mouth shut? With difficult clients at least? I mean he can deduce anything he wants about them, it might even be very… um… helpful if he tells me their little secrets afterwards, but why let these people know what he can tell about them from their shoes, or sleeves, or nails, whatever? I’ve told you so many times, don’t get clever, Sherlock. Especially when you’re already handcuffed to a bed. Now you’re damaged goods, you’re of no use to me like this, which means you won’t have money for your little hobby, fiddling with a needle. Do you get it?”

Sherlock doesn’t respond to him either, and Greg lets out an exasperated sigh. Among Greg’s boys, Sherlock is the one who needs John’s attendance most frequently. John has been to this tiny, dingy flat quite a few times. It’s awful, it’s appalling, but sometimes he looks forward to it.

Well, it’s not like he can afford to be too fastidious, now that he’s lost his medical licence. Greg’s got a job for him, and money is money. But the fact that he’s been eagerly accepting Greg’s generous offers to use the skills of his rent boys now and then, as a sort of additional payment, still makes him wince sometimes—he’s always thought better of himself.

He’s had Sherlock twice, and now he wants more. He’s craving what he could never have had if Sherlock were fine. In normal life, this handsome and arrogant young man would never have spared him a glance. Who would want a limping, worn-out ex-soldier with PTSD?

But Sherlock’s life is even further from normal than his own.

“Will he be able to work anytime soon?” Greg inquires impatiently.

John parts Sherlock’s buttocks and inspects what’s between them. “Hm. I don’t think so. He needs time to recover.” It’d been an assault, brutal and ruthless, but to Greg, a rape isn’t a rape if the client has paid an additional fee for damage and explained that he’d been provoked. Greg doesn’t like trouble. He always prefers a mutually beneficial compromise.

“Shit,” Greg concludes. “What a waste. Well, he can still give a decent blowjob. I could rent him out to a gloryhole party tomorrow. Nobody will look at his back there, and his face is fortunately intact. And the best thing is, his mouth will be too busy, so he won’t say anything inappropriate again.”

“He should rest in bed for a few days,” John protests.

Greg shrugs. “Pity that he doesn’t have time. If he wants the next hit, that is.”

Sherlock tries to raise himself up on an elbow and turn to Greg, the expression on his face desperate, but falls back with a stifled groan.

“I could rent him for a few nights instead,” John suggests. “And you owe me nothing for this visit, and for the next one too.”

A slow, knowing smile makes the corners of Greg’s lips curve. “You have a thing for him, do you? All right, take him. As for you, Sherlock, I hope you’ll keep Mr. Watson satisfied. I’ll ask him afterwards, mind.”

With this promise he leaves, and John comes out to close the door after him. When he returns, Sherlock makes another attempt to get up but fails again. “Lie still, can’t you?” John instructs him and sets to his task. When he touches Sherlock’s backside again, it’s the first time that Sherlock says something, and it’s a barely audible, “Don’t. Please.”

“I’m just checking for damage, I won’t do anything to you,” John hurries to explain. “Hopefully, you won’t need stitches, but I should clean the blood out and see for sure.”

It hurts that Sherlock thinks John’s capable of taking advantage of him while he’s so helpless. It hurts the more because to some degree, it’s true. It feels like molesting when John’s hands involuntarily linger on Sherlock’s boyish hips, or brush across the smooth inside of his thighs.

“You’ll be fine,” John says, feeling as silly as when he’d asked, “Are you all right?” after the first time they’d had intercourse. It’s not likely Sherlock will ever be fine, unless he gives up drugs. John’s old friend, Mike Stamford, could probably get Sherlock into a decent rehab, but John can’t bring himself to tell Sherlock about it. If Sherlock’s life returns to normal, John will most likely never get to see him again. For John, it’s suddenly an almost unbearable thought, much worse than the sickening realisation that he’s a selfish bastard who’s helping to abuse a young man hopelessly muddled in the world of drug-dealers, hookers and dirty cops.

When John’s done with his ministrations, washing his hands and putting the medical kit in order, he gently covers Sherlock’s naked body with a clean sheet so he won’t get cold, and asks, “Do you mind if I lie here too for a while?” He takes silence as a yes, toes his shoes off and carefully lies down beside Sherlock, still fully clothed. After some time, Sherlock tentatively nuzzles in closer, and his hand slides to John’s crotch. “Do you want me to—?”

“Of course not,” John bursts out indignantly, while his aching erection tells quite the opposite. “Just rest now.”

“Good,” Sherlock sighs against John’s shoulder. He’s so close, his battered body seeking comfort and warmth, and all John can give him is an illusion that he’s not alone.

John’s voice hitches a little when he says, hastily, before he can change his mind, “I know a man who could help you, get you into a rehab.” It feels like falling.

**Author's Note:**

> Check out my M/M novel [Tenderly Wicked](https://www.amazon.com/Tenderly-Wicked-Katerina-Ross-ebook/dp/B01LYGUJ02/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1473767605&sr=1-1#nav-subnav) maybe?


End file.
